The Strength to Escape
by misslaheela
Summary: Muarim has been a slave since his earliest memory. His father prayed that Muarim would find freedom, but he must overcome a violent master, a little girl who adores him as a pet, and his own fears of the world. When a red-headed mage befriends him, freedom is closer than ever if he can find the strength to take it. Rated M for some graphic depictions of violence.
1. Chapter 1

The first rays of the morning beamed through the open window. It was the wake up call for the one who always slept with his face turned toward that window. He blinked and shifted his body away from the sun. Why did summer always have to come so fast and last so long? During the darker days of winter, he could sleep much longer. The family never awoke before sunrise.

He sat up, stretching his body and ignoring the ache in his ribs. Before he let himself do anything, before he thought one more thought, he repeated the words he spoke to himself every morning: "My name is Muarim, I am a tiger Laguz, and I will be free someday."

They were the words his father spoke to him when he was a cub. "Your name is Muarim. The humans will deny you a name, but always remember, Muarim. Remember your name." While young Muarim was still in his father's care, his father would repeat his name over and over. After his father died, Muarim repeated his name every morning. It was something the humans could never take away from him. They would never use his name, but he at least knew he had one.

"You are a tiger, Muarim." His father repeated that often too, when little Muarim was still learning how to pounce. "I'm a tiger, your mother was a tiger, and you are a tiger." Muarim had to take his father at his word – he never knew his mother, as the birth had been difficult and the master had decided she wasn't useful to him anymore and got rid of her.

"You are a Laguz." His father emphasized that word. "The humans will treat their dogs better than they will treat you, and they will try to remove all sense of worth from you. But you are not a sub-human, Muarim. You are a Laguz."

Muarim repeated this every morning to himself as well. He wished he still believed it entirely.

The last part of Muarim's morning mantra came from the prayer his father prayed over him one day when he was young, a prayer that his grandfather and great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather prayed over their sons as well: "May you be the first in our family to be free."

Nowadays Muarim struggled to still find meaning in his own words. If he had to be honest with himself, "I will be free" was a dream that he didn't think would ever be achieved.

Standing up, Muarim took one step forward and immediately felt his foot sink into something warm and squishy. He knew exactly what it was without even looking. "Damn it," he growled, making his way to a nearby bucket of water and washing the horse feces off his foot. When his foot was clean, he glanced up at the long face of the Clydesdale blinking at him.

"I wish you wouldn't pass your bowels right where I'm sleeping," Muarim mumbled to it. The Clydesdale merely snorted at him. Technically it was the horse's stable so it had every right to poop where it pleased while Muarim just had to deal with it. His Master had designated the hay in the stall as his bed as a reward for being a good slave at their dinner party last week. Muarim supposed it was a step up from the hard cobblestone floor of their dungeon, but at least the dungeon had no manure in it.

Wiping his foot dry on the grass outside, Muarim entered the manor through a small wooden door in the garden, being as quiet as possible. Despite having the well-built frame of a tiger, he'd perfected the art of tiptoeing and gliding in and out of rooms without making any noise. He heard a voice barking quite some distance away. He wasn't concerned. It belonged to one of the other family members, and they were not responsible for him. This particular manor was enormous, belonging to the largest and wealthiest family in Begnion. Each immediate family within the whole family unit kept their own Laguz slave. The slaves weren't allowed to even look at each other.

Muarim knew his owners, though. They would only just now be getting up. Noiselessly he entered their kitchen and gathered the assorted loaves of bread together. Finding the bread knife, Muarim began to cut some slices out of each loaf, placing them in a visually-pleasing manner into a basket. He counted each slice, then cut one more slice out of a particularly grainy bread: the basket had an odd number of bread slices in it and Master hated odd numbers.

Finally, Muarim sawed off two more slices from the softest bread and meticulously carved them into the shape of a horse. Young Mistress was obsessed with horses and demanded all her bread be cut to look like them. Muarim studied each piece closely, making sure they were exactly the way Young Mistress liked them. Gingerly he placed them on a separate plate. He then took that and several more plates to the smaller dining room. Arranging the plates and the bread basket perfectly, he went back to the kitchen to brew some tea and serve the ale.

Muarim could hear his owners stirring and getting ready to come down for breakfast. He poured the last of the ale into two large goblets. He would need to brew some more later today. The tea was coming along very slowly today, much to Muarim's annoyance. When it finally finished, he poured some into a smaller, daintier cup, then brought all three cups to the small dining room table. As he placed them, his three owners walked in.

Master was impeccably dressed as always, his clothes tailored perfectly to fit his tall, slim frame. Master was a mercenary by trade, a swordmaster specifically. He often told tales of his jobs to his wife, a thin woman who never, ever smiled unless she was trying to impress someone else. Mistress liked to keep to herself during the day, so Muarim didn't have many encounters with her.

Plopping into her chair and closely examining her horse-shaped bread slices, Young Mistress wore a frilly pink and purple dress that Muarim was sure cost a fortune for Master to buy. She had plenty of other dresses, closets and closets of them, and the eight-year-old would probably be satisfied with less than half of them, but Mistress always demanded her little girl look her best, especially in public.

As the family sat down, Muarim backed away and sat down on the floor beside the doorway to the kitchen. Here he was to keep still and quiet, only speaking when spoken to and only moving when his owners desired him to do something.

His owners quietly talked amongst themselves, eating their breakfast without notice. _Well done, _Muarim thought to himself. _They're not complaining. _He quietly waited until they would be finished. Master would surely have a task for him to do afterward, and if not, there was always ale to brew.

"Kitty?" the smallest voice suddenly spoke in his direction. Muarim glanced up at Young Mistress.

"Do we have any more gingerbread?" Young Mistress asked, giving Muarim her best puppy eyes.

"No sweets for breakfast, Lizzie," Mistress spoke bluntly.

"But-" Young Mistress started to protest. One sharp look from her mother caused her to quiet down. She spent the rest of the meal sulking to herself.

Master announced the finishing of breakfast by clapping his hands together twice. It was Muarim's cue to clean off the table. He brought the dishes back to the kitchen and began to wash them in the bucket of water. As he finished the last dish, he heard a small, "Psst!" behind him.

He turned his head and saw Young Mistress standing right behind him, a mischievous smile on her face. Muarim didn't like her mischievous smiles – they usually got him in trouble. Glancing behind her first, Young Mistress leaned over, cupped her hands over Muarim's furry ear, and whispered much too loudly, "Kitty, do we have any more gingerbread?"

Muarim hated these dilemmas. He didn't like disappointing Young Mistress, but if he gave her what she wanted and Master or Mistress found out, he would likely be punished. _I could just lie and say no, _Muarim told himself. But then he looked into the eager eyes of the eight-year-old and decided he couldn't say no to them. Quietly he found the gingerbread, broke off a small piece, and handed it to her.

"I love you, kitty!" Young Mistress beamed, then turned and ran out of the kitchen. Muarim felt the word, "Stop!" almost escape from his throat, but he caught it in time. He was the slave. He didn't command anyone to do anything. He hoped she wouldn't run off and get caught with the gingerbread in her hands.

Minutes passed by. Muarim waited in the kitchen for Master. He would come to tell him his duties.

"Beast," Master addressed him, "I've bought a new statue for my sitting room. The other one was getting old, you know. Move the old one to our bedroom. The new one is at Henry's shop, and you will go get that one and bring it to the sitting area. Be gentle with it this time, beast. I don't want to tire my arm beating you again."

"Yes, Master," Muarim said. He'd moved in the old statue. It was so large, so heavy, that he struggled to get it all the way from the shop to the manor, accidentally clunking it on a doorway. It hadn't been visibly damaged, but Master, ever the perfectionist, wouldn't let him get away with such an error. Now Muarim wondered how he was going to get the old one all the way up the two flights of stairs to the master bedroom and then have the strength to go carry another statue back to the manor, and if Master followed his usual pattern, this statue would be larger and heavier than the last.

"Beast," Master said firmly as Muarim started to exit the room. Muarim turned to see Master's face filled with displeasure. He swallowed. Did he miss something?

"You didn't drink your potion today," Master said, clearly trying to keep his voice steady from rage.

Muarim's heart skipped a beat.

Every morning he was required to drink a potion that prevented him from transforming into his tiger form. Yet there his potion sat, full and untouched. _How could I have forgotten?! _Muarim's mind screamed. _I drink that every morning! It was that stupid horse manure, it distracted me..._

"Trying to sneak around your potions, are you, half-breed?" Master's voice began to rise. He turned sharply toward Muarim and took a step.

"No, Master," Muarim said, using every ounce of willpower to not back away from his approaching Master. That would just anger him further. "I forgot to drink it."

"You forgot?" Master barked, harshly slapping the tiger across the face. Muarim took the blow quietly, swallowing down any reaction. He winced slightly as his owner grabbed his green ponytail and jerked his head to face him. Muarim had not done well to anger Master this early in the morning.

"Trying to gain back your power, eh?" Master's voice was now a low growl. "Thinking you can skip your potions and transform into a beast."

_Gain back my power? _Muarim thought. _I never had any power. I couldn't feel more power_less.

Still keeping a hold of the tiger's hair, Master dragged him over to the potion and shoved it into his hands. Muarim didn't wait for the command. He drank it immediately. The bitter liquid tumbled into his stomach, bringing a flash of burning pain as it always did. Master took the empty container, placed it back on the counter, then pulled on Muarim's hair until he was bent over the counter too. He let go. Muarim stayed put. He knew this posture.

THUMP.

_Oh good, it's the wooden stick, _Muarim thought as another sharp blow hit his back. He preferred the dull blunt pain of a stick or a cane to the sharp stinging pain of a whip. Master must have been particularly mad at him, though. He was hitting awfully hard.

After one more painful thud, Muarim felt his hair grabbed and in an instant he was yanked back from the counter.

"Worthless creature," Master grumbled, striking Muarim's stomach with the wooden stick. Muarim flinched, swallowing down the urge to throw up. Finally Master let go of his hair and struck him in the side. "Go get the statue and, I swear to the goddess, beast, if you scratch it..."

Master struck Muarim's back two more times, hard. The tiger's torso now throbbed. This was not a good way to start off a day of carrying heavy statues.

"Go."

Muarim immediately walked toward the kitchen door, not hesitating to fulfill his Master's command, not pausing to get hit again. Just as he exited, he heard Master's voice yell, "And I saw Lizzie with the gingerbread. You're sleeping in the dungeon tonight."

–

_Author's notes: I feel like Muarim's a character that deserves more love. He's pretty quiet in the games about his past experience in slavery, only that it was harsh and miserable. This fic hopes to go into some of those experiences, and, of course, how he came about to meet Tormod, which is also not talked about much._

_On a side note, I wish more people would do fan art for Muarim. He's a sexy tiger. :3 _

_I hope to keep this story updated on weekends while "Badge of Impurity" gets updated midweek. :) Enjoy!_


	2. Chapter 2

Muarim stood quietly and patiently as Master examined the statue from every available angle. This statue had, indeed, been much heavier and more ornate than the last one, and Muarim had struggled to carry it the entire way. The beatings had been enough motivation to exert all his strength, however, and the statue hadn't once scraped against the ground or any other object. Now it sat upright and proudly in the sitting room, easily the most prominent piece in view.

"I'd like it turned a little to the right," Master finally announced after his lengthy inspection.

Muarim obediently approached the statue and lifted it several inches off the ground to turn it. His aching back protested heavily, especially the bruises where he'd been struck earlier.

"Keep going," Master said, keeping a close eye on the statue for the absolute perfect angle. Muarim continued to slowly turn it.

"There," Master barked, pressing his heel against Muarim's tail to emphasize his command. The tiger bit his tongue to avoid yelping and gripped the statue even firmer to keep from dropping it roughly. With the last bits of effort he could muster, he gently set the statue back on the ground. Master resumed his task of examining the newly turned piece, which Muarim was glad for as it meant his tail was no longer getting stepped on.

"Do you like it?" Master suddenly asked.

Muarim glanced up at the stone carving of Altina, the first Apostle of Begnion. Almost everyone in Sienne had a figurine of one of the Apostles in their home, symbolizing their loyalty to the Voice of the Goddess. Master would surely be the envy of the nobles when they saw the size of his statue. Muarim himself secretly had little respect for any of the Apostles. The previous one, Misaha, had supposedly banned laguz slavery, but practically all she had done was sign a piece of paper. Nothing had changed among the noble classes in Begnion. The current Apostle, Sanaki, turned an equally blind eye.

However, disrespecting the office of Apostle almost certainly meant a swift and brutal death, no matter whose mouth it came from.

"You have excellent taste, Master," Muarim replied.

"Of course I do," Master smiled smugly. "I shall have to invite the rest of the house to an evening party soon. Such good taste shouldn't be hidden. Mm...it would be considerate of me to invite House Bree as well, don't you think?"

"Yes, Master," Muarim answered. "You are always very considerate." _Not to mention upping the ante, after Sir Bree revealed that one-of-a-kind painting in his dining room that made you so envious._

"I am indeed," Master said, then turned to look Muarim full in the eye. Instinctively Muarim's ears rotated back as he knelt, revealing his nervousness of Master's intimidation. Quickly he flicked them back to their normal state, but still swallowed as Master pushed his head slightly back to ensure that he was attentive to Master's face and words.

"My brother Irving killed his hawk three days ago in a fit of rage." Master spoke so quietly, yet so forcefully at the same time. "And you know of my sister Irene. She's gone through three bird slaves in the last year. Were you one of their slaves, you would have been a carcass long before today."

Muarim thought he'd heard a lot of squawking three days ago. On a hill some distance away, he'd seen a mangled heap covered with what looked like feathers. He'd hoped it was only an old coat nobody had wanted or his eyes seeing things wrong.

"I hope you recognize what a good master I am to you," Master said, his eyes piercing through Muarim's. "I have always been very kind and considerate to you. Have I not?"

"You have," Muarim lied.

"I have treated you better than most masters treat their half-breed slaves," Master continued, "Have I not?"

Muarim didn't know the true answer to this question, but immediately replied, "You have."

"I have given you great rewards for your service where other masters wouldn't even consider it," Master said, "Have I not?"

"You have," Muarim responded automatically.

"I fear sometimes that you think rather poorly of me in your little brain," Master frowned, his eyes boring into Muarim's. "After acknowledging all I have done for you, how good of a master I have been to you, have you any right to complain or to grumble? Have I warranted your distaste?"

"No, Master," Muarim muttered, wishing he could look away, but Master kept his hand on his head to force the eye contact. Hoping to appease Master quicker, Muarim added, "I am grateful for all you've done for me."

Apparently satisfied, Master let go of the tiger's head. Muarim looked at the ground, massaging his aching neck. He could still feel Master's eyes on him. _What else does he want?_

"Do you like serving your master?" Master asked bluntly. Muarim felt his heart begin to pound. It was somehow easier to automatically respond to the other questions. Perhaps Master had indeed been less cruel than other masters, but Muarim could hardly think of him as truly kind. Could he lie this blatantly?

"Yes," Muarim forced out, pleading Master would be okay with him still staring at the floor.

"Look at me," Master commanded, dashing those hopes. The tiger put all his effort into keeping a straight, calm face as he returned Master's gaze. Master stared for a couple moments more before asking, "Do you want to be free?"

Muarim's heart beat so frantically that it felt as if it might explode. A cold, fearful chill settled over his body. What were Master's intentions of asking this question? Was there a wrong answer? Surely there was a wrong answer. The tiger struggled to control his breathing as Master kept his unrelenting stare. The creases around Master's eyes appeared as Muarim continued to pause. He could see Master's jaw begin to clench. _Anger. _Muarim knew Master's signs of the emotion well. _How could I have been so foolish to possibly think he might actually want the truth, that he might actually consider setting me free?_

"No," Muarim finally choked out. Somehow, speaking his submissive answer aloud broke his spirit and drowned his hope far worse than he could have anticipated. _That was my chance to find any kind of pride, dignity, or courage within myself, and I just crumbled as always. Everything my father ever told me was wrong. I am not a proud tiger laguz, I am a submissive half-breed slave. _

Master, however, smiled at him. Lightly flicking his ear, he replied, "Beast, you can be an aggravation, a disappointment, and a pain in the ass sometimes, but you are nonetheless a good slave. Irving and Irene are actually quite jealous that they don't have a slave as dependable and obedient as you."

Muarim tried to take any solace he could in Master's praise. It didn't come often.

"Now, I believe there's ale to be brewed," Master instructed, walking away and leaving Muarim in a far more broken state than he ever could have known.

–

One week later, Muarim had swallowed down the bitter churning of defeat in his stomach, convincing himself that his submission to his master wasn't really so bad. He was probably better off this way. He didn't know how to be a tiger laguz. All the other tiger laguz would probably laugh at him and shun him if he were ever set free. Much better to stay where people at least appreciated him somewhat, fed him, sheltered him...

He hammered that thought into his head, forced himself to be grateful, trying to despise the last remnants of pride that whimpered for a different life. He tried to drown those longings with the wet dirty rag he dragged across the foyer floor. He had to concentrate on cleaning the floor as quickly as he could anyway; Master had another task when he was done that would send him into town.

The tiger couldn't have been more startled when a small object suddenly smacked into the side of his head. Immediately recognizing the object as a small fruit, Muarim glanced toward the direction it had flown from and noticed a couple of children laughing hysterically. One of them clutched another fruit in his hand for about two seconds before it, too, was flung at Muarim's face.

"Big ugly beast!" one of them shouted, still laughing. Muarim recognized the two of them as Irving's children. Or were they Irene's? He hadn't had much interaction with the families of either.

"Why don't you go drink your milk and play with yarn like a good cat?" the other boy taunted.

Muarim swallowed back a growl as the two boys approached him. He was not to jeopardize Master's good name by behaving aggressively with his nephews, no matter how they treated him. _You're the slave, _Muarim reminded himself. _They can treat you however they wish._

It was that reminder that kept the tiger calm and composed as the boys kicked, shoved, and struck him, giggling and spewing more taunts about his feline nature. One of the boys shrieked in his ear while the other grabbed his rag and mashed it in his face. Muarim sat patiently, hoping they would lose interest soon. If he didn't play along, they'd surely get bored.

"It's too bad Uncle Issachar's stuck with a big ugly tiger instead of a pretty bird slave," one of them heaved an exaggerated sigh. "If he'd just get rid of this beast, he could get a bird and not get laughed at by all the other nobles."

"Right, Ugly?" the other grinned, smacking Muarim in the face.

Muarim remained still. The boys continued to antagonize him.

"Hey!" a shrill voice echoed through the air.

All three of them turned to look. Muarim saw a very angry Young Mistress approach them. She wasted no time with conversation and instead punched one of the boys right on the nose. The startled boy paused for a moment, dabbing under his nose and finding blood, before beginning to wail.

"You want one too?!" Muarim's eight-year-old mistress screamed at the other young boy, waving her fist at him. The other boy fearfully shook his head and immediately took off running. The one with the bloody nose took off after him, sobbing and cupping his hands over his face.

"Don't ever be mean to my Kitty again!" Young Mistress shrieked after them.

Muarim couldn't hide the surprised look on his face. He wouldn't have taken Young Mistress to be the type to get into physical fights. Young Mistress must have mistaken his surprise as fear, as she cupped his striped face in her hands and said, "It's okay, Kitty, don't be sad anymore. They won't bother you again. They're just jealous because they don't have a birdie anymore. But you're my Kitty and I won't share you."

Muarim tried to find warmth in his heart for Young Mistress as she stroked his head much like anyone would stroke a cat, but it was drowned by humiliation. He wondered what his father would think if he saw his tiger son being petted and cooed over like a kitty cat. _I am not a kitty, _Muarim protested in his head. _I'm a tiger. I will be respected as a tiger. _He attempted to find the courage and dignity to growl, but no sound came from his throat.

"I love you, Kitty!" Young Mistress sang, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing the bridge of his nose several times. Muarim felt the shame creeping up his throat. Surely no dignified tiger would let a small beorc child patronize him like this.

"Lizzie! What are you doing?" Master's voice boomed.

Young Mistress jumped at the sound, but didn't remove her arms from around Muarim's neck as Master approached the both of them, disapproval all over his face.

"Trion and Denver were being mean to Kitty," Young Mistress began, but was interrupted as Master pulled her away from the tiger.

"Don't ever let me catch you kissing a sub-human again," Master told her sternly.

"But he's my Kitty!" Young Mistress whimpered, her eyes welling up with tears.

"You heard me, Lizzie!" Master barked.

Young Mistress burst into tears as she ran away. Master stared after her before turning to Muarim and slapping him across the face.

"It's one thing to let her pamper you," Master glared. "But I will not have my daughter getting the idea that it's acceptable for humans to kiss sub-humans, no matter how innocent the intention. You know better than to let her do that. Now, didn't I order you to go to town and buy some more sword powder? It surely hasn't taken you this long to clean the floors."

Muarim didn't waste any time giving excuses. He simply nodded and turned to leave. He could hear Mistress scolding the sobbing Young Mistress as he exited and walked to town.

–

_Author's note: Sorry for the one week delay. Let me know how you're liking it so far! In the next chapter, Muarim meets a face rather familiar to us..._


	3. Chapter 3

The marketplace bustled and hummed with the sound of people running their errands. Children clung to the hands of their mothers, men bartered for products, and chickens hollered before being handed over to their butchers. Muarim wasn't quite sure whether he preferred a busy marketplace or a quiet one. On one hand, more people meant more glares and more potential abuse. On the other hand, as long as he kept his tail tucked and his face shrouded by a hood, he could slip through a large crowd more unnoticed than a small one.

Small children, much closer to the ground, could see his tail more easily and whimpered quickly at the sight of him. Upon noticing, their parents snatched them away and frowned at the walking intrusion. Muarim ignored them as much as he could, keeping his head down as he made his way to the blacksmith's shop.

"Stop right here, animal."

Muarim didn't have any choice in the matter. A strong-armed mercenary had roughly grabbed his shoulder and ensured he didn't go anywhere. The bulk of the mercenary's muscles easily matched Muarim's, and the mercenary had the upper hand with the steel sword in his scabbard. The tiger turned his face slightly toward the man, but stopped himself from making eye contact. It was a mark of subordination to avert one's eyes to one's superior. From his voice, though, Muarim thought he might be a new hire. As Master was a mercenary himself, most mercenaries around town knew who Muarim was.

"Just what makes you think it's acceptable for a sub-human to wander around a human town?" the mercenary sneered quietly. The crowd continued their daily lives around them, unaware of the confrontation. Muarim recognized the mercenary's attempts to not involve the public just yet, avoiding a fearful riot. He supposed this was the mark of a good mercenary.

"I was sent to pick up sword powder by Lord Kimbrel," Muarim murmured. This was a delicate confrontation: he needed to make it clear that he was a slave, but not so loudly to be heard. After all, the former Apostle Misaha had technically banned laguz slavery. Most people turned a blind eye to a laguz they suspected (or secretly knew) to be a slave, but if it was actually confessed, the Senate would be required to look into it. This never ended well for the laguz – the Senate liked to discreetly sweep the evidence under the rug, kill the laguz, and profess the accused innocent.

"Lord Kimbrel?" the mercenary raised an eyebrow. "I know of two Lord Kimbrels."

"Lord Issachar Kimbrel, sir," Muarim replied.

The mercenary's eyes narrowed, but his face expressed recognition.

"Show me his mark," he demanded.

Muarim cautiously tugged his shirt collar to reveal Master's brand, burned permanently into the skin of his chest. The mercenary glanced at it, then appeared satisfied.

"I'll have my men keep a trained eye on you," he muttered. "If it turns out you're trying to escape, we'll know."

_I'm not that stupid to try and escape. Or maybe I'm too stupid to escape. Either way, _Muarim thought, keeping his head down as he got back on his route to the blacksmith's shop. He thought he could feel more people staring at him, but maybe it was just his imagination.

After a few more stumbles, he found his way through the entrance of the blacksmith's shop. The blacksmith stopped hammering and shaping a piece of metal for a moment and looked at the new customer. His face darkened when he saw who it was.

"Master send you on another fetch quest?" he frowned. "Can't be bothered to do something as trivial as take care of his own sword, I suppose."

Muarim stayed silent, unsure of what to say. The blacksmith had expressed his distaste for Master before. Muarim supposed he should defend Master's reputation, but he didn't exactly know how to counter the blacksmith's comments. Master _did _leave most of the sword care up to Muarim.

"Not sticking up for your old Master, eh?" the blacksmith said, his mouth forming into a half-grin. "I wouldn't either. Now don't you go telling anyone, but I like you better than I like your lazy stuck-up Master, and that's saying a lot because I don't like your kind at all."

Muarim blinked, still trying to figure out whether the blacksmith complimented or insulted him.

"I'm here for sword powder," Muarim finally spoke.

"Of course you are," the blacksmith grumbled, finding a bag on one of his shelves. "I suppose he'll make you care for the sword after you've brought it back."

"Probably," Muarim replied.

Silently the blacksmith exchanged the sword powder for the money Muarim brought with him. The tiger fastened the bag to his belt and readjusted his hood to keep his head covered. He intended on getting back to Master's house as quickly and with as little obstacles as possible.

"Alright, now shoo," the blacksmith waved his hand. "I'm sure your Master's patience is already running out, and anyway, you'll make me lose customers if you hang around."

Muarim obeyed without hesitation. Both of the blacksmith's statements were probably true. He tried not to bump into too many shoulders and wondered if the mercenaries were still keeping an eye on him. Glancing off to the side, he noticed several men laughing and stumbling around in a drunken stupor. He recognized him as the mercenaries under Master's command. Master never had nice things to say about them.

He decided to take a back way to Master's house. He would bump into less people this way. As he walked along the road, he heard the sound of children's taunting. Wondering if he was about to get plunked in the head again, Muarim glanced in the direction of the noise. A few tall, bulky kids were gathered around a tiny, scrawny boy. In one of the thick boys' hands was a plain, simple ball. By the angry tears gliding down the scrawny boy's dirty face, it was his ball.

"Give that back!" the tiny boy screamed, his face nearly as red as his fiery hair.

"Go get it then!" the kid with the ball guffawed, then he flung it as hard as he could in a distant direction. He and his gang then trotted off in the opposite direction, laughing as the scrawny red-haired boy dashed after his ball. It zoomed right past Muarim and, as Muarim followed it with his eyes, it landed in a heap of trash. The scrawny boy thought nothing of the trash as he continued after it, but Muarim could see the gleaming shards of broken glass surrounding the trash pile.

_What do I do? _Muarim thought, freezing as the boy ran past him and straight towards the shards of glass. Just the flat _pitter-patter _sound on the pavement told Muarim that the boy wasn't wearing shoes. The tiger's heart began to beat faster. He didn't want to see the boy get hurt, but he didn't have any authority to tell him to stop. Sub-humans didn't approach human children. Besides, what would he call him? "Boy"? That sounded patronizing.

"Um...l-little one," Muarim choked out, already blushing at the name. "There's broken glass, little one."

Little One stopped abruptly, then looked at the ground. His jaw dropped, as if he never would've conceived that there'd be broken glass on the ground. Glancing back at the tiger, Little One began to step gingerly around the broken glass. _This is still going to go horribly wrong, _Muarim thought. Little One couldn't have been older than seven or eight.

"Permit me to get your ball for you, Little One," Muarim swallowed.

Little One slowly turned around, seeming embarrassed as he wiped the tears off his cheeks. Trying to control his sniffles, he asked, "W-would you do that? M-Missus Munga g-gave me that b-ball just this morning, and if I lost it, she'd yell at me so b-bad and I w-wouldn't have any toys for the r-rest of the week..."

Muarim didn't understand anything of what he just said, but all he needed was the permission to fetch the ball so the child wouldn't have to. He gently stepped over the glass, feeling it crunch and poke underneath his sandals. These weren't the best shoes to be climbing over trash and glass with, but it was better than bare feet. Scooping aside some of the trash, Muarim spotted the small red ball towards the bottom, covered in muck and dirt. Glass nicked against his hand as he reached down to get it, but it didn't cut deep. Pulling it out, he decided he couldn't give it back to Little One all disgusting and muddy like that, but he couldn't wipe it on his clothing or else Master would be upset. Glancing at Little One, he decided to take the risk and wiped the ball clean using his tail instead.

Little One's eyes grew wide.

"You...you're a laguz!" Little One exclaimed.

Muarim stared at him to gauge his reaction. He seemed to be excited...

"Oh man! I've never talked to a laguz before!" Little One continued, his face beaming. "I've only ever seen one or two in the marketplace. I've always wanted to talk to one before. Sometimes I pretend I'm a laguz when I'm playing. So what are you doing in town? Are you doing cool stuff?"

"Um...I'm...getting sword powder," Muarim stammered, nodding at the small bag in his belt.

"Laguz fight with weapons too?!" Little One gasped. "Wow! I always wondered if they did that! So you're big and strong, _and _you can turn into a beast, _and _you can fight with swords? Wait, are you part of the Begnion army?"

Muarim couldn't hide the confusion on his face. _Does the Little One not know I'm a slave? All laguz in Sienne are slaves._

"I do not fight," Muarim slowly replied.

"Oh! Right, strength under control!" Little One grinned. "I bet you're so smart. So...so your face has stripes. Does that mean you're a tiger?"

"Yes," Muarim said.

"I wish I could be strong like a tiger," Little One frowned suddenly. "I could run away from that stupid orphanage and never go back. I'd never have to listen to Missus Munga yell at me again. I'd never get beat up by the other stupid kids again. I'd never have to clean the floors and eat cabbage soup and get hit by Missus Jeanne again. I'd be free and strong and brave."

Muarim's throat closed up. Little One had caused something to move in his heart, something distinct, something piercing. He could recognize his own voice in Little One's words. He wished he could be strong like a tiger too.

"You live at the orphanage?" Muarim asked.

"It's the worst place in the world," Little One said, his lip starting to tremble and his face beginning to twist. "I hate it there so much."

Muarim looked down. His heart ached, not only for Little One, but for himself. But what could he do? Master would-...

Master.

"I...have to go," Muarim said quickly. He knew he would have a beating waiting for him back at home.

"W-wait," Little One stuttered, trotting after the walking tiger. "What's your name?"

_My name? I don't have a name. Call me beast, animal, sub-human, half-breed, freak, kitty, pussycat, mongrel..._

"Muarim," the tiger answered. It felt unbelievably strange to speak his name out loud.

"Muarim! Cool!" Little One said, still trailing after him. "I'm Tormod! I, um...I live at the orphanage. So, um...if you ever want to come visit..."

Little One slowed down, apparently taking the hint that Muarim had to go somewhere without him. Muarim couldn't think of any circumstance that would take him to the orphanage, but he nodded reassuringly to Little One and kept his brisk pace.

"Where do you live, Muarim?" Little One asked, his voice sounding more distant.

Chills fluttered down the tiger's spine at the sound of his own name. It almost didn't sound real. _Is that actually my name? _

"Erm...Kimbrel Manor," Muarim mumbled. Perhaps Little One would get it now. Perhaps he would understand that the "mighty tiger" he was speaking to was actually a pathetic slave.

"Okay...see you later, Muarim!" Little One said, a hopeful edge to his voice. It didn't sound as if he recognized that laguz could not own manors in Sienne.

_Well, what he doesn't know won't hurt him, _Muarim thought, spotting the manor in the distance. _It's not like I'll ever see him again._


End file.
